And The Street Screamed Blue Murder!

The novella by PULP METAL MAGAZINE's Jason Michel, where l'il ole me makes an appearance.

Buy it amazon.com & amazon.co.uk

Ragnarok N Roll

“ … 1, 0! … Geddit? “

Information. Goddamn'd information. That's what it's all about, me ol' china. Everything. Reality. Qubits. Zero & one, not standing defined, not staid, not solid but that holy whole hole zero being endlessly fucked (optimism) or raped (pessimism) by an erect & phallic one. A super-positional orgy.

Reality is the divine come-face.

A wanking divinity at war with itself. Atum endlessly tugging the multi-verse into being.

Well, we all have our quirks, don't we?

Our little foibles.

Chinese Whispers

“Who's there?”

As the wind mustered itself for another assault on the old IZ, Industrial Zone, of Old Lurk, I pulled my brown trench coat tighter around me & bravely marched, head down & gritted teeth, towards the agreed meeting place.

The roads were as deserted as the dawn before bombs drop. Production had long since stopped in most of the factories & warehouses around here. The death of industrial enlightenment had sucker punched Old Lurk as much as any other city in any other universe.

Old Lurk. The Somnambulopolis. The original ghost town.

I entered into an alley between two dark satanic factory walls. The roofs staggered upwards like giant teeth biting into the captured & unruly firmament. There was an

Seraphim Blues

“Angelina”

Spoken in a whisper.

Whistling through the sorrow stained alleyways of my memories on the wings of drunken white doves.

That name.

That girl.