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Circus an introduction to flash fiction : Volume 1 By daniel caller, Art by Dan Byron

LORIENT Little befell Lorient before the storms, the evacuation ships, before the monster. The forever light city and its remaining people, hopeless, watched as the last behemoth cruiser departed without them through broken windows and shadowy places. Talks of building a community from the positives, of striving in the city, now surrounded by water, were first met with apathy and sarcasm, then when the last carts of the derailed supply train ran dry, anger. There were no more hello's in Lorient. This was a city fuelled by fury; of the creepers that consumed all angles and the brilliant white faces of the abandoned high rises, in the continuous cawing of scavenger birds and the faceless monster that would soon grip them all. Peta dug a pit to catch the beast; even though she knew its roots would eventually push through and surface it again, there would be enough time for her and the other positives to make it to the water. It hadn’t been safe to go outside during the day for three months, not since the beast tore Genevieve in half in the poppy fields and venturing out at night meant relying entirely on a lunar light dulled by decades of industrial development; the energy companies had even deemed the moon expendable, some even said the settlements and drilling on earths only moon were the cause of the devastation. One thing was absolute, the beast was born of indifference. It emerged at dawn. The positives always new it was awake, the breeze that shook it’s leaves made humming sounds, an unnatural whispering that meant if heard, you should be running for darkness. It hovered around the pit, now covered with salvaged bubble-wrap and foliage. The creature was eager, instinctive and bungled after a hooting Peta standing some 45 feet away and fell ungracefully into the trap. The positives wondered briefly why they had feared the beast enough to force them into hiding, why they had so willingly served natures suddenly flexing ego when humanity had previously just engineered their way through it. An orgy of lust came immediately after the beasts capture. The positives exposure to a magnificent midday sun filled them with joy, a nirvana none had experienced in their lives before. Peta bounced furiously on Jacobs penis, before screaming one note of pure pleasure as she sprayed her juices down his shaft and groin. The copulative mass of the positives had drawn some curious gazes from the most malevolent voyeurs, transfixed by the beauty of

sudden break of rhythm within the group was infectious, like deer they stopped to survey the area, such had been their perpetual state of paranoia. The beasts were everywhere, connected in a circle around them, their root like appendages spreading across the ground, joining with the creepers that lay beneath the positives and then lifting them all into the air. They all simply accepted death but in reality were assimilated into the beasts new biology. Lorient, out of necessity, birthed natures grand of last hurrahs. The community hidden in darkness, at the epicentre of a global takeover.

MORPHINE After I spent four hours talking to Harold Shipman about the pros and cons of euthanasia, I went for a stroll around the ward. I tipped my hat to a portal goblin as he pointed in the direction of a door, perfectly positioned next to a vending machine selling some very argumentative peanuts, each weaving their own prodigious ruse to persuade me not to eat them. My noisy quaffing was soon drowning the sound of screaming child peanut as I plucked them out of schools and back gardens and placed them between my molars. I opened the door by the now evaporating dispenser, to be greeted by screaming identical quintuplet boys, a sinister gathering that was later explained as a down syndrome sufferers support group meeting. Of course, now that I am almost entirely sober, I can concentrate on giving this man spider a back massage.

SIGNS THAT YOU ARE GAY, BY ROOFER DAVE You play badminton You let your wife shave your back You grow your own parsnips You once put diesel instead of petrol in your motor Ran out of masturbation material, so found a Kojak DVD cover to cum on You continually and deliberately insert things into your asshole You own a bread machine

CRISIS MARKET-A COUNCIL WORKER TRIES TO EXPLAIN AN UNREPORTED ABSENCE I went to a local market recently to add to the insipidity of my existence with clothes pegs, scouring pads and children’s colouring books, but left with a premature mid-life crisis. Having browsed the fleece jumpers and porcelain animal sections of this archaic hell, I stumbled on a stall flogging Taiwanese produced footwear. The creature guarding the crypt of despair donned the kind of apparel that Slovenian cattle farmers ditched 25 years ago and had a big gap where you would expect to see some teeth, definitely the kind of man you can see saying “don’t need a bath, it rained all day Today”. I allowed it to point me in the direction of the "thsofter shoos" without me having asked him anything at all and so shuffled past the miscellaneously stained "arder shoos" until I reached the farthest corner of the grotto. At roughly the size of a family packet of crisps, an area of table not covered in mud or sexual scribble housed something no man of 28 should ever consider buying, a pair of shit brown slippers. My fingers bungled into a crisp note in my pocket and fleetingly a diabolical thought appeared in my head. And it was terrifying. My brush with senior citizenship left me desperate to revive the youthful exuberance of days gone by. One day to be exact. Flipping an Argos catalogue like Johnny Number 5, I looked for anything that would force a time warp. A skateboard, Power Rangers, I even spent 20 minutes looking through the bunk-beds section, giving up only when recalling the reality of my recent financial strangulation, when it dawned on me that it was the reason I visited the market in the first place. A few days later, after an embarrassingly clandestine encounter with my seven year old daughter to learn how to navigate through an e-book reader, collapsing in a heap post rapid stair ascent and forgetting the name of my wife when asked “what is your wife’s name” during a dinner party with salad eaters, I have come to understand the hard way that responding well to the ageing process relies heavily on an adaptable mind, which I do not have. Circumstance and diabolical fate have rendered my brain certifiably ancient and no matter how ignorant of this I am, the cobwebs will keep appearing and my yearning for comfort will soon alienate me from my actual age. I now own a pair of shit brown slippers and I feel so very, very old. There was a premature mid-life crisis, but then I have always been prematurely middle aged. I hope this explains my absence satisfactorily.

MARCUS’ INTERVIEWS Interview 1, Admin Manager A little white lie Marcus told about his love of sailing took an unfortunate turn as his would-be boss announced he had been a keen enthusiast for some 20 years. When asked what sort of boat he had, Marcus bleated "a wooden one" The inability to cope with the shock of being asked a question about a practice he had only phantom experience of left him a dribbling mute for the remainder of the interview. Interview 2, Admin Support The cunty inquisitor under the clock dithered on about minimum standards and meant to continue his assault on Marcus’ ears. This was completely lost on him as for some time he had been looking at the green meany peering in and out of the inquisitors nostril with every breath he took. The only thing stopping it from flying onto the bright white paperwork by his hand was the clump of nasal hair it clung to and Marcus’ sudden desire to make the man aware of the situation. Tissue related embarrassment equalled no job. Interview 3, Shelf Stacker Arriving with plenty of time to spare Marcus considered a can of Fanta from the vending machine in the canteen he had been asked to wait when he felt a bowel movement urging him to the staff toilets. Twenty minutes, a pasty terd and an entire roll of Andrex later Marcus gave up wiping his ass, which by this point has started to bleed, to salvage the interview he was now late attending. Unfortunately he spent the entire interview wiggling his backside like an epileptic penguin in an attempt to stop his asshole from itching. Interview 4, Refuse Collector After an interview that Marcus thought had gone well, it had been revealed to him that he needed a drivers license as there was no public transport early enough to get him to work on time. When Several minutes had passed Marcus ceased stamping on the previously attractive Blondes face and fled the building sobbing into his hands. Later he would masturbate and drink a litre of Bleach.

CONFUSED I woke up outside a pensioners ground floor flat holding a cucumber and resisting arrest. I have no idea why.

COSMIC TELEPHONE FAIL The first successful call Garrison made on the recently excavated cosmic telephone was to the man who engineered it 256 years ago, just to clarify some operating anomalies he had been experiencing, for example, why was it designed to deviate intentionally from everyday telephone call making procedure by denying it buttons? and more importantly, why it's striking resemblance to a tankard? The engineer was very surprised to say the least and explained it was a prop in the diabolical butchering of a well known Bill Shakespeare play, a conversation that ended abruptly with the words “no I really am from the future”. The second call was made to God. Like from the bottom of a well an irritatingly proper female voice said “the number you have dialled is not recognised, please hang up and try again”. In an attempt to make the 18 months digging along the skeleton coast worthwhile he changed the call destination to “the highest possible authority in the universe”. A woman answered. “Hello” “Hello” “Garrison is that you”, the woman said “Mum” he whimpered.

LONELINESS, THE MOTHER OF ALL WIERDO’S I bought an ice-cream from a mugger dressed as Mr. Whippy yesterday, so now I’m broke and after hours of ironing pants and removing miscellaneous stains from the mattress, it seems wanking on the curtains is all I have left to break the monotony.

GREG, A NEARLY MAN I have alienated myself from peers, friends and family with this science and I have spent three million pounds of state grants and private sector investment to deliver mans next giant leap. Tonight I will start the machine and travel through time. I will fuck Paula Abdul in 1989.

B-MOVIE PRODUCER; THE SUMMARY REJECTION PILE Residual Spunk Sex crime detectives Rim and Dodge get more than they bargained for during a routine investigation into spousal rape when the man they tried to arrest blew his own brains out with a 12 gauge, causing the detectives to get a bit sad and grow facial hair. Now the perp's sperm residue lurking in the carpets, curtains, clothes, cupboards, cooker top, fridge, shed, soda cans and his cold dead balls are angry, and want they want to give you a facial. Our hero's and a token china-man landlord who dies half way through must find a way to destroy the creamy slick before it drains all the city boy's plums. MP3 Man A routine experiment to combine the DNA of a redwood tree and a tarantula goes horribly wrong for Dr. Fisk when the machiney thing malfunctions sending an electrical pulse hurtling through the lab, but more importantly, through the Ipod in his pocket. When he wakes, it becomes clear that this movie defies all science. He is MP3 man. Half testosterone, half Leo Sayer play-list, all pissed off. Snaky Shaky A routine RSPCA inspection leads to a man terrified of snakes to take an ill advised trip to snake island, only to discover it houses millions of ruddy snakes. Hilarity ensues as everything long is mistaken for a snake, including tree's, sticks and other people. Love Me Do Do A routine courier delivery changes the life of a man who has never experienced love when he walks through the open door of a delivery address and finds it in the shape of a demented shitting woman. Their relationship becomes strained after it becomes clear that mental Mandy fakes schizophrenia in order to meet men who need to be needed. A tale of betrayal, suspense and above all, the love of a defecating nutter. Weed The Hungry Responsibility falls on a local hippy for paranoia reasons when all the worlds cannabis plants suddenly evaporate and release numbing toxins into the air, causing a global shortage of Cornish pasties and pretzels. A routine CT scan discovers a beat copper is immune to the harmful gasses and so teams up with “this shaggy cunt� to save the world before the hungry get to Bourneville.

Secretary of defence; leaked end of the world email to pm There has been a lot of crap circulating about the supposed end of the world, but there are one or two scenarios that have not been considered. I can see my cat is plotting from under the dining room table and I was definitely hit in the face, more than the usual amount, by dragonfly last summer, so perhaps the end of the world will come in the form of an animal revolt. As long as a badgers death is a good kick in the head away and the eagles are busy clawing at the scalps of U.S senators we should be alright in Blighty, unless it snows of course; we’ll be completely fucked. The most any average Briton has achieved in the snow is falling less ungracefully than the last time and we can expect to die undignified deaths as prey to the tiniest mammals in the world. Then the rest of the world really will be laughing at us as they perish bravely at the paws of bear and big cat

More Biscuits When the vacuum cleaner burst out of the biscuit cupboard at the Pine Hills retirement home demanding more bourbon creams, the orderlies rushed to mop all of the urine collecting in the centre of the room, only to later discover that it would be harvested to water the new Mongolian piss plants growing by the tyre swings.

Secretary of defence; leaked dolphin army email to pm Yes, perhaps, but I’d be rather more concerned about what the leaders of the dolphin community have to say about our plans, they have already threatened us with a tsunami and monsters etc, I don’t know if any of it they can actually do, but I wouldn’t like to call there bluff. They helped us a great deal in 1945 and again in 82 with that ruddy 60ft seal, so I’d be inclined to believe they can. Lets not anger them for now and re-evaluate once we know we have the support of the Kraken and the French. Oh and by the way, your idea about building towns in massive hot air balloons was brilliant, really hope it happens, should piss the Argies right off!

WHAT HAPPENS AT NIGHT Stepping on a plug, pins up and stubbing his toe in the same morning had been simply down to his rotten luck according to Percy and swore on Margaret’s life that if anything else happened on this most inauspicious of Sunday mornings, someone would be on the receiving end of his frustrations. He quietly hoped he would have to, wishing it would be her. Percy had been spewing chunks every night at 2.30am for six long months, the bucket on his bedside table as much a fixture in the bedroom as the snoring colossus he called “Dear” sleeping next to him. Despite Margaret’s attempts to find Percy a solution, even with all her back patting and gentle nursing, he suspected her. Evidence did not ally his suspicions, he had never caught her in the act of imperilment and most of the healthcare professionals were at a loss as to the problem. After being bounced among departments and specialists for four months, most had concurred that the problem must be psychological, but Percy refused to question his mental health and so set about his plans to catch her. That evening Percy supervised his wife cooking, watched as she cleaned his dentures, he changed his toothbrush and discarded all opened toiletries, confident that even though he had seen nothing unusual, Margaret would have been uncomfortable with the shadowing of her every move and would think twice about continuing with her insidious contriving. The fat old cunt will not be poisoning me tonight he thought. Sitting quietly in the corner of the lamp lit bedroom, half an eye on Margaret sleeping, the other on a copy of the Sunday Times he had saved for night time reconnaissance, Percy was ready to pounce, as best as old men can, into violent action at any moment. He had repositioned the mirror on the dresser to show her face while she slept, a fact that Margaret seemed oblivious to as far as her usual habits were concerned. A quick glance at his watch read 2.00am, he stood from his chair to stretch his legs and hobbled over to his bedside table to fetch a light and cigar when he noticed something in his peripherals, a pale yellow smoke rising from Margaret’s side of the bed. The grin appeared on his face almost as quickly as it morphed into a near canine growl.“You think your clever don’t you, you fucking bitch” he barked. Percy yanked open the pyjama draw and withdrew a shirt which he tied around his mouth and nose then headed back toward the chair, reached behind and lifted a small garden shovel. “Answer me you deceitful bitch”. He could see Margaret again in the mirror, but what he saw was not his wife. He tried to speak several times but emitted only tremulous mumbles until finally forcing the words “why are your eyes glowing yellow”. With a jerk, Margaret’s stiffened body levitated from the bed and moved slowly toward the door feet first and

face down, her legs, head and arms rigid as lead. At a distance Percy followed his wife down the stairs and into the hallway where the front door was wide open. He did not go farther, but instead darted into the kitchen for a safer viewpoint. Through the window, what looked like a slug to Percy, was waving appendages wildly in a mass resembling a fire, then suddenly spread in equal distance, stiff like bamboo. Swarms of women in night gowns and baggy T-shirts floated above the creature then dropped as the appendages opened into trumpets and sucked them in, leaving only their heads visible. A quick glance at his watch still read 2.00am. “Well that’s just odd”, he whispered. By the time Percy had gathered his thoughts, the yellow smoke had made its way into the kitchen, the insidious plume gathered quite stealthily around his ankles and then disappeared up his trouser legs, reaching his collar and forcing a way through the shirt around his face in no time at all. With Percy seemingly unaware, the plume began to take him. The room became like reflections of his kitchen in water and to him the drop to the floor seemed to take an age, but In reality he landed fast and hard on the vacuum plug, pins up, shattering his spine. The following morning a confused and clueless Margaret padded into the kitchen to find Percy dead. He had drowned in his own vomit.

HEAVEN? Perhaps rather oddly, John Leslie greeted me at the gates, his smile almost a grimace as he waved me through into a black marble courtyard with a single charred birch tree at its centre. As I blinked my eyes to adjust to the gloom, buildings began to appear all around. Leslie pointed to the first in a row of four and my gaze followed his fingertip into the near distance. “That is the West bed and breakfast you’ll be staying in tonight, next to that is the bar, Mr. Shipman will be serving cocktails, Mr. Gein runs the . . . “Sorry” I interrupted, “just a quick question” “Go on” “Why is heaven so, um, . . . . on fire?” “ I dunno” he said “perhaps its all the burning souls down here”

NAN’S NOSTALGIA “Remember the post war party in Paris? Took me three days to comb the jizz out”.

STUFF IN FILMS HAPPENED In the early hours of Monday morning you wake up to discover a dude dressed as a clergyman sporting sunglasses and a trilby at the foot of your bed. As you reach for the crowbar under your pillow to beat his ass for daring to rob you in fancy dress, he announces that you are the last in a long line of biscuit eating warriors and that a secret code in the form of a birthmark on your hairy back will unlock a secret so astonishing that something might happen. Before he can explain the fantastical circumstances leading up to his entrance through your window, you rush him in a manner that can only be described as maniacal and land several blows to his head. On Tuesday, after a dinner party with people you wish would choke on the rice cakes from a wanky Cumbrian village they spent hours talking about, you head home wondering what you have done to deserve such ignorant and snotty friends. You stop at a bar for a swift pint to forget about it all and to browse the visiting escort section of the local rag when unannounced a beautiful woman sits at your table and delivers a quirky smile. You say “who the fuck are you”. On Wednesday morning television you see emergency news broadcast’s informing the public of an aggressive virus that turns your face inside out, killing thousands across Britain. You realise that you were mistakenly mailed the antidote formula a few days earlier and decide that you must deliver the document to the research centre address on the letter to save as many lives as possible. But first you must attend a tennis lesson as you have already paid for it. On Thursday a tsunami that measures over 2 hundred feet is roaring around the globe destroying everything in its path. Unfortunately you have been busy in the garage for a week adding a thunderous exhaust and a swanky spoiler to your Honda Civic. You are swept away like a fart in a coastal breeze. Friday you wake at for you customary jam on toast to discover your kitchen electrical's have captured your beloved poodle in the microwave. The fridge demands that you fit each of them with solar power so they can escape and build a community of high-end household appliances, or the poodle gets it! You pull the plugs and hunt for your Curry’s receipts. Saturday evening, after one too many cans of energy drink you decide to join your friends at a rave to dance the night and your pride away. It becomes apparent that you have pissed off several boyfriend’s of the women you have been grinding up against and as a united force they circle you on the dance floor. With no bouncer in sight, you make good use of a karate brown belt and land a roundhouse kick to the head of an advancing drunkard. This excellent start is overshadowed however by the subsequent beating you receive from the other nine blokes. Sunday morning you don’t wake up. Everybody pretends to give a shit.

AUGUST 16TH Karen browsed the thickly inked pages of the local rag over breakfast, turning every page with such disdain that a small pile of right angled paper had accumulated in the ashtray, their increasing circumference emphasizing her disgust. A seemingly contagious feeling of disillusionment among the middle-aged and elderly in Farneholme had finally caught up with Karen and raped her of any remaining desire to save her precious village from its various yobs and druggies. She'd had enough, and wanted to leave. Upon lifting her mug for a last glug of tepid black coffee, Karen caught a glimpse of her name on the page. Obituaries. Karen Louise Miles, died 16th August 2009 aged 43. Loved, missed. The fleeting thought of a practical joke was immediately extinguished and replaced with sheer panic as she looked up from her paper to be greeted by a disfigured version of herself looking down at her from the opposite side of the table. Minus an arm and lower jaw, the creature lunged forward causing Karen to bolt up and backward hard into the kitchen sink. Wincing, she felt blindly behind for a weapon until her hands blundered into a defrosting leg of lamb which she immediately threw. Scoring a direct facial hit, Karen seized the opportunity, ran for the door and headed toward a friend across the street, There were sudden lights, and then nothing. Simon punish, an 11 year old local paper boy emerged from the drivers side of a cherry Ford pick-up, and walked a slow 60 metres back to see what he had done. There he saw her. A women. Minus an arm and lower jaw.

LIVERPUDLIAN PHONE-BOX MEMOIRS EXCERPT 1 . . . and this guy just kept looking at me and eventually said “lisun heeya, av hud a fooken shit deer un the phorn t incum suppart, ma BMX cheern fell off an I huv no wierd left ta smork. Yor gonna get fooked oup forn bux”. I was helpless, and could do nothing as he punched and kicked me repeatedly, shouting “Coommanen”. This was a far cry from the streets of Mayfair I can tell . . .

BAD KITTY I shout at you, you give me nibbles. You are a total cunt. You say I'm all you've got left now your warthog wife and piglets are gone. I'm absolutely delighted they're dead, did you know that? Of course you didn't, because I’m a poxy cat and you are clearly mutton, otherwise you would have flung those Neil Diamond LP's by now. Shame that fire didn't spread to the garage, caught you and all of your row in its wake. Next time I’ll make sure. Next time ill get you and the rest of your hideous life. Teach you to . . . Huh? What do you mean "what did I say" He . . . put me down oaf Where are you taking me . . . Nnngggfff . . . get me out of this fucking microwave!

WIN/LOSE Marek had dreamt he won the Lamborghini, 1st prize in a motoring magazine competition he had entered. The dream also revealed in great detail his murder and the subsequent arrest, trial and conviction of his ex wife for his piano string decapitation; a vivid sequence that included revelations at crown court of her defecating in the mouth of his severed head and the steamy piss she took on the engine of the car he loved more than she could sanely handle. The following Monday he received word from Elite Motoring that he had indeed won his all time fantasy car and that it would be delivered to his home address after a short interview for the monthly publication. He attended. 2 years and a lengthy trial later, Marek's son Josh is old enough to drive the motoring dream he inherited.

A FATHERS DISAPPOINTMENT Terry knew his son was physically inept and news that Simon had made the mixed netball team made him very angry indeed.

MEET ME AT THE MALL Millie's face rose like a pale sun into view from Paul’s position at the top of the escalator. With every second and every appearing piece of her came fresh chills, warm feelings and urges. This was it, a blind venture into a wilderness of the unconfirmed with a series of indecipherable diagrams and sporadic fatherly advice as his only guide. Paul seemed bemused by the simple hello he received on her arrival and responded with of a series of broken high pitched greeting sounds, leaving him feeling every bit the teenage boy he was. They hadn’t even got to Coffee Republic with his enormous purse of 12 pounds before he’d made an idiot of himself he thought, but by the time his silent cursing was over she had taken his hand and sweetly asked to be escorted to a nearby cookie stand. As they approached, and with no consideration or respect of their juvenile love, both of their heads spontaneously exploded.

EGO While scoffing posh chocolates into the very core of herself to forget about being a tosser, Helen caught a glimpse of a man on television who appeared to be washing himself from a pot in a cemetery of all places. She turned the volume up and gave her full attention to the attractive busy-body who was reporting. The journalist dithered on briefly about how there was no more room to bury the dead and blaaady blaaa zzzzzzzz, then the man washing from a pot appeared again and began to speak of his living conditions. The following broke her heart. 1) This man and his whole family lived together in the graveyard, 2) With pride in his eyes, showed us the living quarters he had built. Which were shit, 3) Helen glanced at her half eaten chocolates, empty Pringle tubes and the vacuum she’d wanted to dump because of the colour. Only in moments of pure decadence, during which you learn about the terrible plight of a far away peoples or some prejudicial travesty, is it possible to truly question what you have become and where the whole sordid affair that has been your life will leave your twitching carcass. Some will go surrounded by friends and family, others just prior to reaching the summit of true greatness, How would Helen go? She convinced herself it would be dressed as a pumpkin in an ASDA car park if Karma had anything to do with it and the ego reinforced worry about how things looked in her house and a throw away attitude would set this theory in stone, unless she did something about it. But after a shitty nights sleep, several nappy changes and an hour clearing snow from the driveway, Helen no longer gave a fuck and went about the rest of her days drinking and illegally claiming benefits, because that is what people do.

DR FARLEY, CHRISTIAN ZEALOT, STARTS A TRANS-DIMENSIONAL WAR As it stood, Dr Farley was to lose his practice licence and unless Vicar could pull something extraordinary from up his sleeve to wow an exclusively Frelixian jury, a species famed for its lateral thinking, he would spend many years on 24hr live TV; shitting, pissing and masturbating in full view of the public from a prison cell was definitely not part of the original plan. The injecting of microscopic bibles in saline solution into the gum of earth's only surviving demon was in fact a gesture of Christian goodwill on Farley's part, but even Vicar and his indefatigable positivity knew the defence was flimsy at best. Simply, they were fucked. Vicar appeared at Farley’s side holding a latte and a giant cookie. “ I have interesting news” exclaimed Vicar, stinking of stale cigar. “I want to hear something completely ridiculous like, earth is under attack and therefore I can't stand trial today” “We are under attack. You can't stand trial today, not in court anyway” Vicars face was as straight as a politicians. His hand waved in the air as if to beckon something from the sky. Farley turned 180 degrees on the spot to see a plate free black hover car approaching. “What’s going on Vicar” “Well, lets just say that your attempts to cure the last living demon on the planet have sparked violent anger and now the entire world want’s you dead before your existence kick starts a new war between humanoids and the other dimensions thus rendering earth a mixture of blood coloured empty buildings and blood coloured everything else” “Oh, and how have you found this out in the ten minutes it took to fetch me a coffee” Vicar Pointed to the electronic billboard visible from the sky port boarding deck. An unflattering picture of Farley, taken during his brutally executed arrest, appeared on the screen accompanied by the words, “If you see this man, kill him, or risk trans-dimensional war!”. “Fuck” said Farley.

LIVERPUDLIAN PHONE-BOX MEMOIRS EXCERPT 2 . . . And despite my continuous pleading via my fluorescent bubblegum laden Receiver, he ceaselessly urinated on my insides. It took council cleaners almost 3 weeks to show up and clean me. Now I know how those pensioners feel . . .


Circus Volume 1  

Collection of flash fiction stories in the spirit of good old mad bastardy