This Mortal Coil, by Emily Suvada

If you can get past an early scene in which the heroine has to eat the raw flesh of a diseased victim in order to gain immunity to the same disease, then you should enjoy this book, but there are several scenes just like it which are not for the squeamish.

The story is set in a future where all the human population have a screen grown into their arms from birth, on which there are various apps which do various things such as help heal or augment sound and vision, as well as allowing you to experience VR.

Genetic research has also moved on to the extent that people can change their physical appearance, not by changing DNA itself but by expressing genes in different ways (at least that’s how I read it – when it gets to the nitty gritty in can be a bit complicated but this doesn’t detract from the story).

Our heroine is Cat Agatta (a clever use of the four nucleotide letter bases to create a character name), whose father is an amazing genetic scientist, but who has been living alone since he was abducted by Cartaxus in order to find a cure for the Hydra virus which is threatening to destroy humanity.

A soldier then appears at her house, who knows her father and breaks the news that he is dead. Between them they find out that her father found a cure, but that she must de-code it in order to release it to the world.

The story continues on at a great pace, with believable characters and believable motives, and contains more twists than a strand of DNA, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I would strongly recommend it to anyone who likes science fiction.

The world it inhabits is probably a cross between Michael Crichton and Hunger Games/Divergent, and so if you have read and enjoyed those writers then you will enjoy this.

A great start to the trilogy, and I look forward to reading the next instalment. Click for Emily Suvada's website.

The Deal

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’ She exclaimed.

‘I…I wasn’t expecting you’. He stuttered in reply.

‘Me as in us? Or me as in me?’

He puzzled over this. ‘Both. I suppose. You’d better come in.’

‘Were you expecting someone else?’ She asked, putting the parcel down and shuffling out of her coat.

Looking around, it surprised her how neat everything was. She couldn’t help noticing a thick envelope sitting in the middle of the desk. Then she noticed how neatly dressed he was too.

‘I was expecting my wife’, he replied.

‘But isn’t she..?’

‘Dead, yes.’, he answered matter-of-factly. ‘But she told me that she’d be coming to collect me today’.

‘Oh. I didn’t know. Congratulations, I suppose.’

He didn’t reply, just looked sadly at the parcel that she had brought.

‘Do you ever regret..?’

‘The deal?’ He finished for her, looking into her eyes and nodding. ‘Sometimes.’

The Masacre of Mankind

A book I have been waiting for all my life, and a book written with both love and imagination.

In a lot of ways, I have lived with the Martians for more than thirty years now. I can still remember sitting on an old sofa with a bowl of shreddies in my lap, and hearing the voice of Richard Burton for the first time tell of the coming of the Martians. By the time the first cylinder had opened on Horsell Common and the pulsating wet leather of it's contents disgorged, my breakfast was sitting soggily on the floor with my appetite vanished, with the speed of a man turned to flame by a Heat Ray.

I was terrified, and I was thrilled and I was in love with War of the Worlds (at least the musical version).

That was before I read the book, which I soon also fell in love with, although perhaps not the cover depicting the brain and tentacle combination of the Martians, which always had to go face down before I fell asleep; I would always hurry back from the darkness of the bathroom in the middle of the night lest a tentacle grab me!

And every year at midnight on the 12th August my eyes would turn skyward for a flash of green, a puff of smoke, but thankfully none came and the Earth remained un-invaded (from space at least).

And so onto the sequel, published 120 years after the original, and a book I began with both excitement and trepidation. Having known of the publication in advance, I had already read some of Stephen Baxter's books, and enjoyed them. And knowing him to be a good writer, my excitement was greater than my trepidation, and I was not disappointed.

The original story has been cleverly used and enhanced, and in a style that flows neatly from one to the other. Neat references have been made to the original book, but also to 'unofficial' sequels that came out at the time, to Orson Welles radio dramatisation and to Jeff Wayne's Musical version.

And it is also noticable how Baxter has obviously taken as much pleasure in destroying various worldwide major cities, as Wells did in destroying much of Woking.

So, are the Martian's stopped for a second time? And how, for they will surely not succumb in the same way as before? You will have to read it to find out. And was the book any good? Well, I have read War of the Worlds more times than I can remember, and I think that this book will end up being read almost as many times in the future, and I can think of no better way of saying that I loved it, than that.

The River Forking

They had followed the river for years, small groups joining the throng from time to time as it moved through the scarred, deserted valleys. Food was sparse, but enough, whilst the river provided all the water they required.

One day they came to a fork in the river, and a discussion was held over which direction to take. One fork led away into the far unseen distance through a landscape similar to the one they were used to. The horizon above the other fork, however, appeared to be a hazy blue-green in colour.

“Look!” some said, pointing to the North East. “There are green fields. That must be a verdant land to cater for all our needs. We will be able to take back control of our own lives by planting crops and animal husbandry, rather than relying on foraging what we can as we travel.”

“But how can you be sure?” Said others, as they pointed to the North West. “At least on this path we know where we are headed, and know that we can find food and shelter. Why take the risk into the unknown?”

“Listen!” The first group said. “Hear your experts! They do not know but they are afraid of change. They have no new answers for you. We have allowed our numbers to grow too large and now there are too many of us to be supported within this landscape.”

“But it will cause fighting amongst ourselves if you prove to be wrong and there is not enough food.” Responded the second group.

And so it went on, with each argument infused with greater fear than the last until a great confusion reigned amongst the populace. To them, it seemed, whatever they chose would cause War and Famine and Pestilence. There would be a great Suffering by all concerned and Disaster would befall their community.

Eventually they decided that each person would choose for themselves, as the leaders were so petrified of making the wrong choice, they would rather make none at all. The majority chose the North West path, as it was a landscape they trusted and knew how to eke an existence out of. But a few chose to travel towards the inviting hazy blue-green on the horizon.

Over the long days they found the distant haze slowly begin to take on a darker hue. The hopeful green shade diminished in favour of the blue, before becoming purple and black, until they realised that they were staring at a range of bare mountains, rising up from the other side of a deep chasm.

Their fork was throwing itself off their side of the chasm, falling with a deafening roar that echoed amongst the rock formations like giant flapping birds.

“What do we do?” some asked. “Do we turn back?”

“No. There is no turning back. You made your decision at the fork. You were brave and curious. You trusted your instinct for freedom over the control that the others would have forced you to bend to. Have we not too been able to feed ourselves since the parting?”

“Yes”. They replied. “But now what? There is no verdant land here, nor on the other side of the chasm. And we dare not leave the river for losing access to water”.

“It is simple. Do you not see? We throw ourselves over with the water and carry on following the river until we reach our perfect green and pleasant land.

“It will be for us only, because we will be the only ones brave enough to take the difficult path and it will be our reward for perseverance. And we will defend it from all comers”

The people were unsure, but since their leaders were so sure of an outcome which they all craved, they slowly formed up a line on the edge of the chasm, with the water rushing headlong down by the side of them, growling like a fearsome dragon. They all held hands with one other and closed their eyes in this leap of faith.

Until suddenly the cry went up.

“Jump!”

Dispatches

As midnight's veil of dark approaches
The time for rats, the time for roaches
A mist descends to frame the world
And the path from living to dead unfurled
When we awake to our darkest fears
That bring us shivers and torrential tears
Palpitations of a fevered heart
And shuddered bones are smashed apart
Those terrors are breathing; We give them life
As our hopes hang troubled on the edge of a knife
When a magic word can speak them away
Bringing up the sun of a new dawns day
So remember, it's you who has the power
To bring to dust their ivory tower
If they might listen, then they might heed us
Halloween was a time for dispatching leaders

The Dragon in the Garden

The little dragon’s quest was almost over as he peered over the high wall of St George’s garden. He could see his quarry in the distance, looking like a pool of blood he thought.

He hopped onto the top of the wall and looked down. It was a long drop and he still didn’t quite have the strength in his wings to fly. He swallowed. He jumped but landed awkwardly on his leg. Great, he thought, I’m a goner if there are any dogs.

The dragon limped through the garden, skirting the wildest looking plants. Their defences look like they could be painful, he thought. He could scent what he was after and the smell of victory was getting closer.

But all of a sudden a patch of swaying vines loomed up in front of him, and stretching to either side as far as he could see. He had no choice he realised, he would have to go through them. He charged.

The mass of vines looped and swung as they sensed the invader, but the dragon hopped and jumped, skipped and dodged. He could just see daylight ahead when one vine slapped him hard from behind and sent him spinning.

Dazed and confused on the floor, his head felt like it would explode. Opening his eyes, the daylight burst in like a rocket, but the dragon sensed rather than saw the danger closing in on him. A couple more jumps and I’m there he thought, willing himself up. His heart was thudding.

A couple of vines swished with killing blows, but they only hit dirt as the dragon scampered out to safety. He stood panting, with his sore leg and head. But I’m still alive, he thought, and I’ve still got a chance.

And looking up he saw what he was after. He was so excited he forgot his injuries and ran forward. He almost failed to spot the dagger-like thorns protecting his prize but managed to pull up just in time. His eyes widened at the size of the spikes.

Carefully he stepped off the grass. This isn’t going to be about speed, he thought, but agility and precision. Controlling his breathing he crawled and stretched, weaved and twisted himself a path through the sharp points.

Until there it was in front of him. He set to work with his teeth and claws, sap running down his jaw as he nibbled away at the stem. It was tough and seemed to take forever. But before he knew it, he’d worked it loose and it was in his little hands.

Immediately he could feel an extra strength glowing in his wings. But as he stretched them out he was suddenly wracked with pain on one side. Turning to look he could see one of the sword-like thorns had caught his shoulder.

The pain was so great that his head began to throb again, so too his leg. The dragon swooned and breathed deeply. As he did so, the scent of the flower in his hand worked like a painkiller and he returned to consciousness before he could topple over.

Smiling and spreading his wings more carefully this time, the dragon took off. Circling about above the garden, he could see the gardeners all running out, looking like ants from high up, and shaking their fists at him.

But the dragon took no more notice and turned westwards for home. I may have a leg, shoulder and head injury, he thought, but I have what I came for: A big, blood red rose to take back to my fathers.

Forest Dweller

Today is also the International Day of Forests, so once more I couldn't resist...here is a 300 word story.

It disarms me.

The stillness, the mud squelching between my toes and the squashed aroma of sap, moss and decay transports me into the memory of another day.

A blanket spread upon the ground, half in sunlight and half shaded by the arms of an oak tree. Birds are singing distantly. High above they are building their nests from the previous Autumn’s leftovers.

There is life and greenery. Children play amongst the bluebells and daisies, dancing and singing with an infectious joy. Others make collages from the different leaves they find: Ash and Poplar, Beech, Lime and the ubiquitous Oak.

It is a festival of Spring and of nature; a celebration of the continuing cycles of birth, growth and death. Where others pray to silent and unseen Gods in grey and cold constructions, we sit in quiet reverence to the warmth and coloured diversity of the Earth.

No-one who is here believes it could be destroyed.

I am back in the present; back in the bleak landscape of man-made destruction. Where trees once stood are now black holes, lost to the depths of time. All life that relied on them vanished with them. The woodpeckers, the mushrooms, the beetles and the squirrels all evicted. Behind me some of that life still remains, like the past, but ahead of me the world is unrecognisable.

The clogging smell of diesel and brick dust fogs my senses, like a thick curtain, as they prepare to try again. Today, like every other day for the last six months, what remains is due to be ripped up and torn apart.

Our home.

They do not see us coming since they do not know we exist. But today I give myself and add my name to the long list, to ensure the forest lives another day.

Dramatics

Graham had to admit that it looked suspicious; after all he had plenty of reasons why he might want to take revenge on his neighbours.

There was the incident the summer before when Mr Damsel had loaned him sunscreen, assuring him it was factor fifty. It ended up being factor fifteen and Graham’s sensitive skin got extremely sunburned. The Damsel’s never used sun cream apparently.

Then a few weeks ago Mrs Damsel had invited him around for dinner. However, the shrimps she had served as a starter were well past their sell-by date and Graham had diarrhoea for a week. The Damsel’s had cast-iron stomachs apparently.

But having said all that, it was an accident that the tiger had gotten loose during the dress rehearsal for the village amateur dramatics society performance of The Jungle Book. The Damsel’s didn’t know that you shouldn’t run away from a stalking tiger apparently.

Graham was sure that everyone would realise that it was just an honest mistake.

Inspiration

Type: Any

Location: Village

Age-group: Middle

Keywords:

Tiger

Rehearsal

Mistake

Shrimps

Sunburn

The Tricksters, part 4

It’s the same scene, but a week later. All three are sitting in the same places, but instead of a hallowed silence and muffled television, grim faces and contemplation, now there is a sense of jollity and relief, raucous noise and laughter.

Surrounding them are empty beer cans, a half dozen on the floor and another half dozen in a tower on the coffee table. A pile of chip papers sits next to it sending out a smell of stale grease and vinegar. Greg has his voice back.

‘That felt wonderful’, he said for the third time that evening and laughed. The others laughed with him. ‘Did you see the look on his face when the third delivery was made?’

The question, as often with Greg, was rhetorical.

‘He deserves this’, he continued. ‘The way he’s treated us, as if we’re nothing, as if we’re the muck that’s come in on the bottom of his shoes. He must have hated not being listened to, as if he was some sort of crazy, demented old man who’s forgotten that he even ordered pizzas.

‘He must have hated that lack of power, of no longer being the one who could make the decision, of having to plead with a pizza delivery man of all people. That must really have cut him deep.’

‘It was funny enough when the first guy turned up’, Alan said. He had been there watching from the very beginning while he waited for Pete and Greg to show up.

‘He just looked very confused to begin with. He had a look on his face which suggested that he wondered if he had indeed ordered the pizzas but just forgotten. After all his name and address were correct. By the second delivery he was starting to cotton on.

‘I can’t believe how lucky we got with the fact that he was actually hosting a party. I loved the bit where he said “I haven’t got time for this, I have guests”, at which the delivery man replied “That’s probably why you ordered the pizzas”, except he said it in broken Polish.’

They giggled again, but in his own head Greg was reliving it all. The texts written by Pete were spot on, conjuring images of a confused man who wasn’t quite sure what he was doing or what he wanted. Of course this was exactly what the delivery men expected when they got to his house, and it was exactly what they got.

Greg hadn’t fully understood it at first, but he saw it in action he realised what a masterpiece of scriptwriting it actually was. He mentioned this to Pete.

‘Thanks. Funny you should mention it actually.’

Pete had been wondering all week how he was going to get this subject out into the open. The previous weekend had been something of a cathartic experience for him, having never mentioned Paul and his tragic end to anyone since he had come out of therapy.

Although he had felt that he could get on with his life quite happily without that sense of extreme guilt which had plagued him before, especially with his goal of continuing Paul’s work as some type of memorial, he had still felt unable to speak openly about it. And he realised a week previously, he had been holding himself back solely to keep Paul’s memory.

‘Oh?’ Greg said, intrigued.

‘I handed my notice in yesterday. At my job. And I’ve enrolled on a scriptwriting course.’

Greg was just about to speak when Alan spoke up.

‘Make that two. I’m leaving the police.’

Greg and Pete looked at him in shock.

‘What?’ Alan asked.

‘You of all people seemed so set in your ways’, Pete answered. ‘I thought that the Met was like your second home.’

‘That was the problem’, Alan replied.

‘But I thought you loved the camaraderie, isn’t that why you joined in the first place? What are you going to do instead?’ Pete continued.

‘Going to train to be a primary school teacher’.

‘But I thought you said..?’

‘I know what I said’, Alan cut in.

In fact he knew full well what he had said. That any man who went into teaching must be queer, or at least a paedo. That it was a job for women because it didn’t require any heavy lifting. That it was a job for women because it meant that they were available to pick up the kids at the end of the day when the men were doing proper jobs. That it was a job for women because they weren’t capable of working fifty-two weeks a year.

‘But it wasn’t me.’, Alan continued.

‘Yes it was’, Greg said, ‘we heard you’.

‘Yes. I mean, it was my dad. He said all those things and I just repeated him. That’s what I’ve been doing all my life, copying him. It’s about time I did what I want to do, and if he thinks I’m queer, or doesn’t want to talk to me or see me again then it’s his problem, not mine. I’ve got to stand up to him’.

‘Crikey!’ Pete said. ‘What’s brought all that on?’

‘Marie. She came here to repair the boiler.’

‘A woman repairm..woman?’ Greg said.

‘Exactly’, Alan said smiling. ‘It shocked me too, at first. But she’s...well, she’s just amazing. And it’s got me thinking. And then your story last week Pete got me thinking even more. Life’s too short to be copying your parents. Why should I be living up to my dad’s standards when I don’t agree with them? My life’s got nothing to do with him.’

‘How’s your dad taken it?’ Greg said.

‘Doesn’t know yet.’

Greg’s question had been going through Alan’s head all week. How exactly was he going to break it to his father that he had both quit the police force and intended to begin training to be a teacher? A primary school teacher at that. He would probably disown him. But lately Alan had come to a conclusion, albeit yet without too much conviction.

‘But then to be honest I don’t really care how he takes it. I love Marie; I think she might be “The One”. And if she thinks that I’m doing the right thing then my dad can, well, you know...’

The room quietened as all three were lost in their own thoughts. After a moment, Alan and Pete found themselves both staring at Greg. He looked up.

‘What?’

‘What have you learned from this?’ Pete asked.

‘Yes, have you undergone any personal changes?’ asked Alan.

‘Should I have done?’

They had no answer to his question. Greg grinned.

‘Have actually. I’ve learned that I am entirely happy with who I am and what I am doing. I wouldn’t change a thing. Last week’s sore throat got me to realise that I am nothing without my voice. I love to speak...’

‘We’d noticed’, Pete and Alan said in unison.

‘Well, there you go then. You already know that I wouldn’t want to do anything different. My voice is my talent. I can weave anything with the words that I cast, I can hold anyone spellbound. I proved that tonight.

‘Although Pete’s words were spot on, I don’t think that there could have been anyone else here who could have spoken them with the right nuances and expressions, emotions and intonations than I?’

As there was no response, he continued.

‘Quite right. No one. So why on earth would I want to change from a job where I get to speak for all of every day? I get to tell people that they can do any job in the world that they want, to highlight their strengths, give them advice on their weaknesses, and mould them into exactly the candidate that an employer wants. Or at least, thinks they want.

‘And with those employers, I get to tell them what they think they want. I make sure that they pick the worker that I want them to have simply because they believe what I’ve made them believe. Who else has that sort of power? The power to persuade, the power to convince, the power to trick?’

‘I guess we’ve all been playing tricks lately’, Alan said. ‘Some of us on ourselves.’

‘I’ve never seen you show that depth of sensitivity before’, Greg said with sarcasm.

‘He’s got a point’, Pete added.

‘Still. This is isn’t some kind of moralistic tale is it?’

‘If it is, can I use it for a script?’ Pete asked. ‘I’ll pretend it’s made up. Honest.’